Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer and One Whiskey
by Nell McKeon
Summary: Outlaw Days - Written for a challenge story prompt -100. The Devil's Hole Gang members are looking for a missing tool. When Kid Curry finds not the missing tool but 99 bottles of beer - Note sounds on harmonica. All together now… 'One hundred bottles of beer on the wall…'


**Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer…And One Whiskey**  
By Nell McKeon

 _This was written fairly recently for a story challenge - 100. I had taken a long hiatus from ASJ story writing and this was my first effort in years to get back into the fandom, which I had missed._

Kid Curry tugged on the rusted iron handle of the door to a little used tiny storage shed tucked back along the steep canyon walls of Devil's Hole. The door was stuck. Kid tugged a little harder. Still stuck. A glance back over his shoulder towards the main compound and all the other cabins and buildings in various states of repair or disrepair that comprised the outlaw hideout of Devil's Hole confirmed to Curry that this was the very last place to look. Heyes had the entire gang looking in, under, and over every nook and cranny in every building in the canyon for an iron tool specially made for a previous bank job that Heyes was sure they brought back to the hole with them after the job. Kid was just as sure that they left it at the bank in the rush to leave since the safe proved more trouble to crack than was anticipated. But he was willing to humor his partner and look for a tool he was certain they wouldn't find.

However, this door was well and truly stuck. The wood must have swelled with the recent rains and warm weather, and judging by all of the undisturbed dirt, rust and debris around the entrance, who knew when was the last time anyone entered. Kid could, in good conscious, tell Heyes that the dang piece of specially bent iron was not in the Hole and that they would need to get a blacksmith to bend another for the job Heyes was currently planning. But, if Heyes asked did he look everywhere, he couldn't in good conscious lie to Heyes' face that, yes, he did look everywhere. The door would have to be opened. Curry planted a scuffed boot securely against the door jam, placed his hands firmly on the handle, and pulled hard with all his might. The weathered door jerked open and hung crookedly from the one rusted hinge that held. Kid picked himself up from where he landed and dusted the dirt, leaves, and sticks from his ass before peering into the hazy gloom of the shed's interior.

Curry entered, waved the swirling dust away, and coughed a few times before he could really see the interior's contents.

"What the …Heyes! Heyes get over here, you gotta see this," Kid shouted out the door.

Hannibal Heyes, leader of the infamous Devil's Hole Gang, stopped circling the leader's cabin and looked up. He had been peering behind the few scraggly bushes along the foundation, while listening to various gang members give their reports on their assigned searches. Brown eyes squinted in the afternoon sun as they located his partner. Kid Curry was waving him over before he disappeared into the dilapidated shed way in the back of the Hole's compound.

Heyes strode quickly, in anticipation, getting ready to say "I told you we brought it back", even as he admitted to himself he didn't ever remember using that building for anything. It's far enough away from the all the others it might make a good place to store explosives, with a little repair work, starting with the door, he thought.

Heyes stepped next to the smiling Kid and grinned. The grin slowly slipped into a frown when the leader of the gang didn't spot a specially build iron bar but bits of rotten sacking, a few scrap boards, pieces of frayed rope, and a tiny dirt floor covered with a whole lot of very dusty, cobwebbed, identical brown, full whiskey bottles, lying every which way.

Kyle, who had followed Heyes, nudged Kid to side to have a look inside. "Hoowee, lookee we're gonna have party tonight!" The little outlaw darted between the leaders of the Devil's Hole Gang and grabbed one of the bottles.

Wheat and Hank had come over to see what the commotion was all about. A small circle of four outlaws formed around the open door with Kyle in the middle of the doorway, now holding a bottle in each hand. Heyes and Wheat both grabbed a bottle from the hand that was closest to them. Kyle looked forlorn and bent to retrieve two more bottles, while Wheat pulled the cork and downed a big swallow.

Cough, cough, cough, gag, spit, more spit. Wheat's face turned red, shading to purple, as the older gang member fought to draw breath as he stared wild-eyed at the offending bottle in his hand. Kyle straightened up quickly and looked curiously at his best friend.

"Ain't it good, Wheat, Didja drink it too quickly? Go down the wrong pipe?" Hank asked as he slapped Wheat's back hard in between coughs and sputtering.

Heyes uncorked his own bottle and cautiously sniffed at the contents. He tipped the bottle and dipped a long finger then licked, while the growing crowd of outlaws watched and waited for the leader's verdict.

'It's not whiskey. It's beer, flat, skunky, old beer that someone must have poured into empty whisky bottles instead of leaving it in the barrel. Why, I don't know but whatever they were thinking, it sure didn't work." Heyes recorked the bottle and passed it to his laughing partner. "Get rid of the stuff, Kid, before someone decides to drink the stuff anyway. It'll get them sick if they do. Have some of boys help you dump the rot gut. I'm going back to the cabin to work on the plan." Heyes turned on his heel and walked dejectedly away, his disappointment and annoyance showing in the set of his shoulders.

Curry gave an acknowledging nod to his cousin's retreating back before taking a few steps to the side and placed the offending bottle on the top of a low lying natural rock wall that curved along the bottom of the steep canyon slope.

Lobo had shouldered his way past Kyle into the shed and had been quietly lining up and counting the bottles. "There's ninety-nine bottles of beer in here. Ain't it a crying shame to spill it all out? What a waste," he complained to Hognose.

Kid's head turned slowly around. "How many bottles of beer?" he asked.

"Ninety-nine," came the reply.

Blue eyes crinkled in mischievous mirth and a grin grew larger in the youthful face of Kid Curry, Fastest Gun in the West. "Yep, it would be a crying shame to waste all those bottles. So, I'm not gonna, I'll use them for target practice. Line them up boys along the rock wall, all ninety-nine of them." Kid called out. "Hank, you run back and bring me a couple boxes of bullets, okay?"

"Sure thing, Kid," Hank ran off.

Wheat, Kyle, Dutch, Hognose, Lobo, Leroy, and Southpaw Paul formed a line and started to pass the bottles to Kid, who was placing them carefully at regular intervals as he walked along the rocky ground.

By the time Hank returned, slightly out of breath, with the 45s the bottles were all in position. Kid was checking his load in the colt, getting ready to begin.

All eyes watched a focused Kid Curry place the colt in his holster, take a stance, and fast draw. BANG, brown glass shattered.

"99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 98 bottles of beer on the wall," Kid sang out as he twirled the six-gun back into his holster.

BANG. More brown glass shattered and the gunslinger reset his stance, singing, "98 bottles of beer on the wall, 98 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 97 bottles of beer on the wall."

BANG. "97 bottles of beer on the wall, 97 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 96 bottles of beer on the wall."

BANG. "96 bottles of beer on the wall, 96 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall 95 bottles of beer on the wall."

BANG. Kyles high pitched voice joined in, "95 bottles of beer on the wall, 95 bottles of beer, If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 94 bottles of beer on the wall.

BANG. The wet, shattered, brown glass glistened in the sun as Lobo's baritone and Hognose's base joined in with Kid's tenor and Kyles out of tune, but enthusiastic attempt at some sort of harmony, "94 bottles of beer on the wall, 94 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 93 bottles of beer on the wall."

BANG …. (you get the idea)

Inside the leaders cabin Heyes sat at the large table, papers strewn about him, staring at his drawing of the tool he would now need to get a blacksmith to fashion without asking why Heyes needed it. This was not part of his careful planning and he was not pleased. Gradually the sound of Kid's gun, which had been banging away for quite some time now, and was that singing, sank into his consciousness. Heyes muttered, more than slightly annoyed, "Kid and the boys better have gotten rid of that skunky beer before Kid took target practice. And that God-awful singing better not be the result of drunken fools, soon to be sick drunken fools." The stone cold, sober planner, leader of the most successful outlaw gang in the west, rose from his chair and listened. He went outside on the porch and listened some more.

BANG. Loud, raucous singing could be heard. "YOU BOYS BETTER NOT BE DRUNK. IS ALL THAT BEER GONE? WHAT'S GOIN' ON? " Heyes shouted.

BANG. "33 bottles of beer on the wall, 33 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 32 bottles of beer on the wall."

Lobo shouted back, "KID'S TAKING TARGET PRACTICE AT THE BOTTLES, HASN'T MISSED ONE YET. DAMM HE'S GOOD, HEYES. ONLY 32…" BANG. "32 bottles of beer on the wall, 32 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 31 bottles of beer on the wall." "…MAKE THAT 31 MORE TO GO. WE AIN'T DRANK A DROP."

A hint of smile passed across the brown-haired senior partner. "FINE, LET KID FINISH BUT STOP THAT INFERNAL SONG. IT GETS ON A BODY'S NERVES". Heyes turned to go back in the cabin but at the last minute thought better of it and decided to see if Kid would shatter all 99 bottles. He had every confidence his partner's abilities but 99 fast draws in close succession was pushing it.

BANG. "31 bottles of beer on the wall, 31 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 30 bottles of beer on the wall, 30 bottles of beer." Every gang member present was cheering Kid on and singing as loudly as they could, Heyes directive was being soundly ignored.

Back in the barn, a tall, thin, black-haired man rose from a pile of hay and shook himself off. He stooped to fish around the hay with his hand, groping for something. A brown bottle was found and held up to the afternoon rays of sun streaming through the open door. It was empty. The empty bottle was discarded. More groping around and an almost full, corked bottle was found and clutched in steady hands. He was pleased to note that the banging he had been aware of was not originating from inside his head but outside as was the not so angelic choir of voices. Preacher set off to find the gang, brown whiskey bottle in hand.

BANG. "4 bottles of beer on the wall, 4 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 3 bottles of beer on the wall."

Preacher found the entire Devil's Hole Gang, gathered behind Kid Curry at the back of the box canyon. He stared at the brown shards of glass strewn the length of the natural ledge rock wall, the brass shell casings along the ground where Kid must have emptied the colt and reloaded, and 3 brown bottles still standing.

BANG. "3 bottles of beer on the wall, 3 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 2 bottles of beer on the wall."

A softly smiling but still silent Heyes felt a poke in his side and glanced to the left. Preacher stood there and asked in alarm, "Why's Kid shooting all them full bottles of Whiskey, Heyes?"

BANG. "2 bottles of beer on the wall, 2 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 1 bottle of beer on the wall."

Heyes gave a quick explanation, while turning back to the spectacle and then noticed the brown familiar-shaped bottle in Preacher's right hand.

BANG. "1 bottle of beer on the wall, 1 bottle of beer, If one of those bottles should happen to fall, what a waste of alcohol."

Heyes' hand shot out, in a speed worthy of the blond gunslinger standing before him, grabbed the bottle out of stunned Preacher's hand and ran to place it on the wall. Heyes started to sing, "A hundred bottles of beer were on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer."

"WAIT, WAIT, THAT'S NOT FLAT OLD BEER. THAT BOTTLE HAS GOOD WHISKEY IN IT. STOP, KID DON'T SHOOT," shouted Preacher in a panic.

Kid drew, fast as lightening, the hammer clicked back but the gunslinger did not fire. Kid Curry gently released the hammer, twirled the colt back into the holster. He strode to the last remaining bottle on the wall.

"100 bottles of beer on the wall, 100 bottles of beer, Take 1 down and pass it around, no more bottles of beer on the wall." Curry uncorked the bottle and belted a swig down. He grinned as he wiped his mouth and passed the bottle to his now broadly smiling partner. Heyes drew a long swallow and passed the bottle to Wheat.

"No more bottles of beer on the wall, no more bottles on beer. Go to the store and buy some more, no more bottles of beer on the wall," Kid sang the last verse and the bottle was passed among the laughing outlaws.

"Go to the store and buy some more, 99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer…"

"KYLE! Shut up!"  
 **  
** **Note:**

I grew up singing the song with the lyrics "99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer. Take one down and pass it around, 98 bottles of beer on the wall…" However, when I researched the song to see if it was known in the 1880's, I found the alternate lyrics, which I used for most of the story as it fit the situation a bit better.

The song is anachronistic for the time period. According to Wikipedia "99 Bottles of Beer is an anonymous American folk song dating to the mid-20th century. It is a traditional song in both the United States and Canada. It is popular to sing on long trips, as it has a very repetitive format which is easy to memorize, and can take a long time to sing." I can certainly attest to the fact that is sung on long trips, I did as a child on car trips with my family, on school trips (although I doubt in today's culture the song is sung on school buses now) and my children have sung it on our long car trips. I wonder if the origin had anything at all to do with the building of the interstate highway system in North America and the rise of the car trip culture for family vacations.


End file.
